Tiny Lights in the Darkness
by Rhyolight04
Summary: Sherlock isn't as alone as he might like. Low angst, high-tar. Smoking is bad for you. Fix-it fic, spoilers for Series Three.


Molly saw Sherlock heading for the door. He looked sad, which meant that he didn't think anyone could see him. For once he was probably right about John, but she caught Lestrade's eye and left Tom alone on the dance floor to run to him. "Go get him back," she told Lestrade fiercely.

"He wants out, he's done well, let the poor man—" Lestrade caught the full effect of Molly's glare and fell back a step. He was still—barely—above the legal limit but his willpower was weakened. "What should I say?"

"Anything! Tell him his job's not over. I don't care, I can't catch up to him, not in these shoes—go!"

Right, then. Lestrade managed to leave the hall without crushing anyone's feet—the guests were a nervous bunch, he felt, parting in front of him—

The night air and the relative silence hit him like a sudden caress and Lestrade sighed, glad despite himself for the moment's peace. And for the chance to grab an un-disapproved-of smoke. He was, he realised, an addict: the sound and the flare of his lighter quieted the nag in his throat before he had even inhaled. Breathing in, he made the coal shine bright. He looked around for a tall frame in a sweep of darkness. Over near the end of the drive. "Sherlock?"

"What, Lestrade?"

"Come back and talk, anyway. You waiting for your ride?"

"The car said it would be here in five minutes, it's been three and a half."

"Bit early to leave." Lestrade blew smoke in the direction of Sherlock's voice.

"I believe I have fulfilled all the social norms."

"Molly says not."

Sherlock, readable in the streetlamp-light, looked at him. "You're not sure whether she's lying."

"No, I'm not, but I agree with her—we wish you'd come back in. You really aren't supposed to leave before the bride and groom."

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me, and Molly, and I daresay it'll matter to John. And he will notice, Sherlock. You mean more to him than anyone else in there besides Mary."

"And that means I have to come back inside." There was still a question in Sherlock's voice.

"I wish you would. Tell the car to come back in about, oh, an hour and a half."

He watched as Sherlock texted his car service and walked deliberately back across the path to Lestrade. A barely noticeable tug, even though Lestrade was paying attention, and Sherlock was lighting up.

"Give me those back, now, you're meant to have quit as well."

"It's very noisy in there."

"It is. Fresh air will do us both good." They sucked sweet nicotine and the much tastier and differently poisonous tars into their lungs.

"You did a hell of a job, you know."

"A curiously ambiguous statement, Lestrade."

"I like it when you call me Lestrade, you know; it's more familiar and you almost always get it right. No. You were a very good best man. And from what I hear you were the maid of honour, as well."

"That was Jeanine."

"The maid of honour is supposed to help with the wedding preparations—"

"And, as Jeanine was in Mumbai, she was unable to fulfil her role. I did what anyone would do. Besides, Mary has a refreshing view of tradition and takes direction fairly well."

"Does she really?"

"It was much easier after she decided to which rules of wedding etiquette she would adhere. She gave me a marked copy of "Simple Guidelines for Simple Weddings". It suggested arguments for the bride to have with her intended and her parents at the appropriate times in advance of the wedding. We breezed through it."

"Her having no parents to argue with—?"

"And John having no preferences to speak of. I don't know why people think planning a wedding is difficult."

"I've managed to forget most of mine."

"Registry office, Weston-Super-Mare; reception at a free-house pub; your brother's band; honeymoon in Torquay. You got food poisoning, she got cystitis."

"Christ."

"Your old sergeant was indiscreet. How's Donovan?"

"Very well; I'll tell her you asked." Lestrade ground his cigarette butt underfoot, picked it up cautiously, and put it in the container provided. Sherlock had smoked his down to the filter. "Come on, then. Break's over."

"So it is work, for you too?"

"Not as much as it is for you, no; but yeah, I'm here by myself, and John and Mary look so damned good together, and I wonder if I ever did, and I'm not young enough to try again."

Sherlock lit another cigarette from the butt of the first.

"Jesus, Sherlock, I haven't seen anyone chain smoking in years. Most people pretend."

"These are hardly stronger than a placebo. Now, Russian cigarettes, the nasty ones… Ah." Whatever he'd been doing, Sherlock's lungs were still impressive. Half the length of the cigarette glowed as he took one long drag.

"I'm still happy to see you off the other stuff."

"So am I. And I'm quite consciously indulging in bad behaviour tonight. I've been 'good' for weeks. Months, now."

"I was glad you took it a bit easy when you first got back."

"I didn't want to. Over here, Molly."

"There you are," she said, heels clicking on the flags. "The DJ's having a drink and a bite and then he says the next few dances will be slower."

"You'll want to be back inside," said Lestrade.

"Maybe. Not. Give me one of those right now, please."

"Molly!"

"I know what a diseased lung looks like better than either of you and one cigarette is not going to kill me." Lestrade handed her the pack and flicked his lighter for her.

"Thank you," she said. Lestrade and Sherlock watched her in silence. "Do you know what it's like being my age and not married at one of these things?"

"Not much better than being my age and divorced?" Lestrade asked.

"Much worse. At least no one here is related to me."

"Almost no one here is related to anyone else," Sherlock told them. "Cousins on either side; John has an aunt."

"Probably saves some of the usual drama," Lestrade ventured. "Mind you, Sherlock—"

"It's not as though I planned that!"

"I wish I had a shot of you vaulting over the table, I thought you were going to take out the maid of honour," said Molly.

"Oh, right." Sherlock took a small heavy camera out of his pocket. "One of you might care to take over for the photographer."

"Why not you?" Lestrade asked. "I've seen your stuff, it's really good."

"I prefer my subjects still, and not necessarily life…No. The last time I was roped into taking photographs at a wedding, I ended up loathed by both families."

"What happened?"

"They'd given me a videocamera, and when the bride's father tried to pay the band and found his pocket picked, I didn't even need to deduce the thief, just roll the relevant shot."

"And it was?" asks Molly.

"The groom's father. They asked. It wasn't as though I were happy about it."

Molly and Lestrade laughed, and even Sherlock's tightly-wound miasma seemed to lighten a little. John put his head out the door of the hall, sniffed the air, and came out to them. "I might have known. Really, Molly."

"Why 'really' me?"

"A doctor, for God's sake. Your date's in there looking sorry for himself. Favoring his leg."

"I don't think the fork went in very far. What a baby!"

John started, glanced at Sherlock. What he saw seemed to reassure him. "Yes, well. Sherlock, Greg—Mary wants a dance with each of you and then she'll throw the bouquet and we can get out of here and leave the rest of you to it."

"We'll be in in a moment," Lestrade said. John went back inside.

"Sherlock, you've done an amazing job. He looks happy. Happier than he's been. In years. Sorry," said Lestrade. "That started out being about the wedding and got away."

"It was never supposed to take that long," Sherlock said. The shadows kept his face mysterious, half-hidden, and Lestrade reflected that was more comfortable for all of them.

"Well," Molly said. "Come on, you're just about done after all. Dance with the bride. And when she's done with you, Sherlock, may I have the next one?"

"Yes. Thank you. And perhaps the two of you will stop complaining about your wallflower status and dance with one another."

Molly and Lestrade looked at one another.

"You said the next few will be slower?"

"Yes," said Molly. "I might quite like that."

"I might quite like it, too," said Lestrade. "Go on, then. Back inside. Face the music."

"And dance," murmured Sherlock. Lestrade squeezed his hand.


End file.
